


sketches of early autumn

by MyLadyDay



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist!Joe, Booker present only through mentions, First Kiss, First Meetings, Joe and Booker as roommates, M/M, dedicated artist Joe, focus on Joe and his art, mildly implied that Nicky is immortal, more tags added with later chapters, mostly Joe centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLadyDay/pseuds/MyLadyDay
Summary: What always drew him in was movement. The way different people carried themselves, and moved on their own and around each other. It was why people watching captivated him so much, and why he looked around as soon as his fingers were done with drawing the bowl. He was always looking for someone to catch his attention with the uniqueness of motion.Wherein Joe is an artist chasing inspiration.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	1. autumn in the air

**Author's Note:**

> written for the ToG BB 2021 over on Tumblr (and posted with a slight delay because this year was killer already, and time has no meaning). after some major technical difficulties, all chapters are up (and will probably be mildly edited in a couple of weeks)
> 
> Amazing art by Remmarts is rebloggable on the link below, and embedded in chapter 9
> 
> https://remmarts.tumblr.com/post/645863935055200256/hey-yall-here-is-my-art-for-the

The first cold morning of the season was always special, with the way the sun seemed to be lazy in coming out all of a sudden, after countless mornings of bright sunshine and endless blue skies. There was a certain magic when he looked out the window, still hazy and warm from sleep, but waking quickly with every moment in the chilly air, only to see the autumn mist clinging to the trees. A mesmerizing sight that made his fingers itch with the need to create and put this on paper just to keep the magic alive for a moment longer. 

As if it wasn’t already etched into his memory, seeping into his skin, making him smile at the prospect of everything ahead. 

The street below was still empty at this hour, so peaceful and still, and entirely intact, save for the dull light of the streetlamps casting the last shadows through the fog before they were due to go out. Joe stood in front of the window a bit longer, taking in deep lungfuls of cold air like a man starved for autumn after what seemed like a summer than threatened to never end. 

A high pitched ping from his phone broke the moment of peace, and the world where he wasn’t the only man around came into focus all too quickly. As if finally realizing it was actually much colder than the previous mornings now that he was focusing on more than just the picture perfect view outside, Joe shivered where he stood, achingly aware of how cold his skin had gotten. 

That too was a feeling he loved; the cold he didn’t even notice until he suddenly did, chased away in a matter of moments just by grabbing a sweater from the wardrobe for the first time in months. The sudden warmth made him shiver, highlighting just how cold he’d gotten, and he delighted in it. It felt like his own personal snow day, these moments of magic before everything else filtered in.

The phone pinged again, and this time he turned to it, still pulling the sweater down until it sat right. The action brought with it a craving for hot coffee and french toast, and Joe smiled to himself again.

He smiled even wider when the screen of his phone lit up to show two messages from Booker, amusing in the fact that he was just down the hall and hopefully getting ready for work. 

“put a shirt on, you’ll scare the neighbors.” the first text said and Joe laughed out loud, only barely registering the sound of Booker’s car starting then leaving the driveway.

“left early btw.” the second message told him, kind of redundantly.

Joe typed out a quick “Shirt is on, neighbors are safe” before looking for some pants and finally making his way downstairs. 

The cold was pleasant, somehow amplifying the allure of the coffee still steaming in the coffeemaker, something that made his morning that much better. Booker rarely got up before him, and rarer still actually left coffee in his wake. The magic of it all just intensified, and filled him with warmth while he savored the cold on his cheeks. 

He’d barely made it to the kitchen counter where the coffee was waiting for him, still steaming in the mug, before he was reaching into the nearest assorted crap drawer to pull out whichever sketchbook was hiding there. They were everywhere, hiding in various nooks and crannies of the house just waiting to be filled with whatever was on Joe’s mind. Pencils and random ink pens were never far behind, popping up in places that only made sense to him, and sometimes Booker if he was lucky (or drunk). 

The little pink Moleskine booklet lurking under a forgotten oven mitt was almost chalk full of pastries and cutlery, and Joe flipped to the first empty page. Ideas were going through his head just as quickly as he flipped through the pages, until he’d settled on the simplicity of the particular mug Booker chose to leave his coffee in.

In the grand scheme of things, it was an ordinary piece of Ikea ceramics with an deliberately faded blue glaze, and a chip on the handle that was probably the most genuine thing about it. But it was autumn, and it was steam on a cold morning. 

It was a quick one-line sketch in an almost dried out blue Sharpie, and the first one of the season that Joe’s cold fingers put down on paper. Nothing short of perfection to set the mood for his day, a warm up for everything else swarming in his mind. Oh, the possibilities were endless for this day.

Giddy was a word Joe would use to describe himself only on an occasion like this, when his muse seemed to be revived in the fresh air and morning fog, and the first sip of hot coffee. 

The craving for some french toast never went away, but Joe knew he wasn’t even remotely ready to make some himself, not when the day was just starting and he could be outside. Autumn may have officially started, but the day was still shaping up to be warm and sunny, perfect to sit somewhere outside and people watch. He was curious to see how many are excited about this change, how many were sad to see the summer go, and just how many didn’t even notice there’d been a shift that day.

With a thought of the day ahead, and all that it may hold, Joe grabbed his chipped Ikea mug that no longer held any inspiration and made his way back upstairs. He needed jeans and to dust off a jacket before heading outside, and there was no time to lose. 

There was no time to lose, but he still stopped on the stairs to marvel for a moment at the way the sun hit the window just right, making the early morning magic all the more real.


	2. the calm

The people in the street were no different than usual; the elderly couple from down the street out with their terrier, holding hands and laughing together, the sometimes but not always harried looking mother and her twins, the college students Joe kept forgetting about because they never seemed to be home. The same people as every morning, but the twins were bundled in tiny sweaters, and there were suddenly more college hoodies around than he’d expected.

Everyone was adapting and moving forward, going about their day like it was just like any other. Joe already had sketchbooks filled with these particular people, so the urge wasn’t quite as strong to stop in the middle of the street and whichever forgotten sketchbook was lurking in his jacket pocket. 

He kept going, drinking it all in, just knowing that the urge to break out the paints would be overwhelming by the time he’d returned home. Joe had to admit he couldn’t wait for that, because summer was for watercolors and soft pastels to best capture how light the season made him feel. Looking at watercolors was a warm breeze passing through thick green leaves, making them whisper and let the sunlight through. 

Oil paints and oil pastels were the crunch of red and brown leaves underfoot, and the comfort of a thick wool sweater. But they weren’t exactly easy to carry when looking for inspiration at the park. 

For such a beautiful morning though, the park was surprisingly empty. Joe’s bench near the south entrance was vacant as always. For most people, it was too close to the street to get the peace and quiet of the park, but for Joe it was the perfect spot because of the position.

The south gate was the busiest one, so between the people entering the park and those just passing by, he had plenty to observe and catch bouts of inspiration which made this spot his favorite. All of these strangers passed by just as quickly as the flicker of an idea, and Joe had the time to put it down on paper and then move on to the next one. 

He settled on the edge of the bench, just under the tree, where he could listen to the rustle of leaves while he worked. The inner pocket of his jacket, the one he hadn’t worn since the last rainy day back in the spring, was hiding the small navy pad of coarse charcoal paper he loved in the moments like this when he stumbled upon it and got the urge to use charcoals again.

It stood to reason that there would be a forgotten charcoal pencil in any of the other pockets as well, and Joe smiled to himself when his hand came out smudged with charcoal dust lining the hidden pocket on his left sleeve. The pencil was there, a little worse for wear, but more than usable enough. 

The little girl that passed him with a bright smile and even brighter windbreaker was the first to make it on the pages he was staining with his charcoal fingers, her smile contagious and matching the joy he’d felt since waking up. Then the elderly man and his fluffy German Shepherd walking on the other side of the park followed. 

Drawing people was his favorite part of the season because the change in weather always affected everyone differently, and they all showed their feelings in different ways. The group of college boys entering the park, all of them in shorts signaling that they were in denial about summer being over. Or the girl on the bench just a little further into the park from where Joe was sitting, with her orange sweater that may have been a bit too warm, but she looked happy as she stared at the leaves above her head. A few of them were already brown and getting ready to fall, and she looked like she could wait for that to happen.

It was easy to lose count of his drawings, when they were coming and going so quickly, with the light changing and the leaves rustling overhead. Easy to forget he couldn’t spend the entirety of his day sitting there and watching people go about their business, as if he had none of his own.

The number of papers he had was limited anyway, and if for no other reason, he would have to leave just to get more. Maybe a graphite pencil instead as well, seeing as his fingers were already smudged to hell. Despite this same issue he always had when working with charcoal, he never remembered to carry tissues or wet wipes with him.

Looking at the charcoal black of his fingers for a bit longer, Joe decided he needed to clean himself up a bit, or risk smudging his pre

Seeing it as a further opportunity for inspiration, Joe stood from the bench (all the while pretending he hadn’t been sitting there long enough for his legs to almost fall asleep) and decided on a change of scenery. Food sounded nice as well, after all the time he spent sitting in the park. 

It was a common occurrence for him, really, and he could tell some of the regulars smiled his way because he hadn’t been there during the worst of the summer, incapable of actually drawing outside if his hands were sticking to the paper with all that sweat. Just thinking about it was enough to get excited over the change in seasons again.

But it never took a lot for that to happen, not when the people around him were leaving summer behind as well with their hoodies and cinnamon scented lattes.

The change hadn’t been quite that sudden really; the days were slowly losing the edge of disgusting heat, replaced with a cool evening and fresh mornings, all leading up to the first day he actually needed long sleeves. While not that monumental of a change, it was certainly a welcome one in more ways than one.


	3. with charcoal on his fingertips

The cafe was one of Joe’s favorites.

For one, it seemed like the owner shared his love for the colder months and couldn’t wait to show it. Overnight, just like the cold suddenly appeared, so did the menu of various breads and soups that hadn’t been available just days ago when Joe had been passing by. It was impressive, really, that there was someone out there anticipating this particular time of year even more than he had. 

But he’d never known Andy to do anything by halves, and it was foolish to start expecting it at this point. 

She saw him through the window as soon as he set foot on the patio, he could tell by the way her impressively expressive eyebrow lifted at the sight of him, and Joe knew immediately he didn’t need to bother ordering. Andy’s job was pretty much to maintain a stony silence in the face of almost all her customers, and seemingly to know what Joe wanted before he even knew. 

This skill extended to food in particular, but he was confident it would translate well into other areas if Andy wanted it to. 

He’d barely sat down before she was standing next to him with one of her ancient looking ceramic bowls on the platter in her hands, with two slices of bread right next to it that made his mouth water. Only once did he make the mistake of calling it artisan bread, and Andy never let him forget he was on the verge of being a hipster. 

She had a thing about hipsters that he never got to the bottom of, but there was always time.

“I was expecting you sooner,” she said, as if Joe followed any kind of routine. At least when it came to the time. “Quynh was sure we were going to find you sitting here in the frost first thing this morning.”

Joe laughed, not even bothering denying that it was a possibility. He had the familiar spots and the familiar faces, for new bouts of inspiration, that much of a routine was actually true. But he’d never been one to stick to a schedule, and to dictate how long he’d stop to draw somewhere. 

“Should I ask what this is?” he asked instead, peering into the bowl as Andy set it down in front of him.

“Soup,” she said with a small smile that held more mischief than people cared to notice, and walked away back inside. 

While it did smell delicious, it was by far too hot to eat and Joe was grateful for it, because it allowed him time to put all of that down in charcoal before even taking note of the extra napkins and the small bottle of hand sanitizer Andy left for him at the edge of the table. He did, however, notice that she must have taken her time to arrange his food in a different way, just because she knew he’d stop to sketch it like he always did. 

While still life was never his _thing_ , he did enjoy drawing it on mornings like this when the sight of soup and a nice bread made him feel warm. The sketch felt more like a memory he’d gladly look back on than a quick doodle to practice a skill he’d have a hard time forgetting at this point. 

What always drew him in was movement. The way different people carried themselves, and moved on their own and around each other. It was why people watching captivated him so much, and why he looked around as soon as his fingers were done with drawing the bowl. He was always looking for someone to catch his attention with the uniqueness of motion.

It felt like it was always meant to happen there, outside of Andy’s little cafe, on a perfect day like this. 

Joe spotted him once he’d walked into the cafe and Andy actually smiled when she saw him. His back was turned to Joe, but the way he walked and the way he filled the space around him was enough to captivate. His hair was a mess, even from the back, and his jacket giving the impression that it wasn’t a perfect fit, but Joe was mesmerized nonetheless. 

The sketchpad before him was already turned to a clean slate, his hands still covered in charcoal dust, but steady and waiting for the inspiration to hit. 

Of course it was going to hit, when this man moved so deliberately, with measured movements that only an eye prone to detail would see as hiding a fluidity that wasn’t present in many. The fact Andy smiled at this stranger also said plenty, but Joe was more interested in observing for himself. He’d gotten past feeling awkward about finding inspiration in strangers years ago, and at this point he embraced the moments where he fell in and out of love with a brief idea and a flash of a muse in strangers he’d come across daily. 

This one felt a bit more monumental. An interest he was far from shaking, not with the buzz of creation fizzing at his fingertips. 

The stranger turned from the counter where Andy was no longer smiling outwardly, but she had that air around her that was reserved only for the few. And this man dared to show his face in Joe’s direction, with the bright eyes and nothing but a flicker of a smile. The scrunching of his nose as he smiled didn’t go past Joe’s notice, nor did the way he moved his hand through his hair, messing it up even more. 

That hair looked like someone’s hands had been in it for hours, musing it beyond repair, and Joe was absolutely mesmerized. Inspired too, and his hands were already moving, the lines appearing on the small paper in quick succession. He’d never been unsure of himself when art was involved, and he wasn’t about to start anytime soon.


	4. so fell autumn rain

He never made it a habit to flip through his sketchbooks afterwards, to look at the drawings he’d made while people watching, or just with random inspiration while outside of the house. The ideas that had potential to grow beyond a sketch stayed with him and evolved until he was ready to grab a canvas and work. 

Everything else existed in his sketchbooks, with the possibility of never seeing the light of day again. For him, it worked. Some sketches were a revelation if he stumbled upon them years later, and it felt like destiny of a sort, to find a long forgotten idea that he wasn’t able to work through when he’d had it. Others stayed hidden, as nothing more than a learning experience for the future. 

It was never a habit, and yet this time he couldn’t help himself almost as soon as the door was closed behind him.

He had a very vivid memory of almost every line he’d put down on paper that morning, every expression and every detail in charcoal, but taking a look at everything felt different. While it wasn’t his goal to look through absolutely everything, he did take this opportunity to flip through the pages, taking just enough time with each to note what he could have done better.

The main focus were the ones at the very end, of that stranger from Andy’s cafe that remained an inspiration even when he was out of sight. That in itself was out of the ordinary, so Joe passed the entirety of the situation as a one time thing. 

There were four sketches in total, and only because they filled the last four blank pages; Joe knew there’d have been more if he still had materials to work with. 

The first was a bit shaky, the linework revealing that he was taken off guard by this stranger at first, but it still held the usual quality of his work. It wasn’t a face filled with detail, the simplicity of it making the expression all the more prominent. Joe was a bit proud of this one because some of his usual weak points weren’t so weak this time. He attributed the way the likeness seemed a bit off to the fact the drawing itself was shaky in itself.

Already forgetting this wasn’t something he usually did, he turned the page to take a look at the next one.

In hindsight, changing this part of his artistic process had been a bad idea. If something worked for him, he’d never before had the need to fix or change it. This deviation from norm put him in an awkward position where he was forced to notice that the second sketch looked like a completely different man.

Continuity was never one of his weak points, and getting someone’s likeness down over and over again was what he did, and yet he was faced with a problem he hadn’t had since the early days of art school. So with a fair amount of trepidation, Joe turned the page again.

There was something in the eyes that showed familiarity, and the curve of his mouth that held a note of recognition, but overall this was for all intents and purposes, a man completely separate from the previous two. The longer he stared, the less this looked like the man he had actually been drawing, and it was borderline infuriating by the time he turned to the final sketch.

At this point, there was very little mystery about what he’d find, but he needed to see it anyway. 

First glance, and he could see the man he’d been drawing, but a blink was enough for that to be gone, and replaced with someone who gave him a sense that this might have been the same man, if not for some unrecognizable detail that went wrong. Since his usual process was already broken, Joe didn’t hold back from flipping through the pages once again, just to convince himself that he hadn’t suddenly lost his mind. 

He really hadn’t was the very quick conclusion he’d come to.

He’d sketched the girl in the orange sweater a couple of times, when no one else was coming into the park, and flipping through those revealed that her likeness was the same in every drawing. It always looked like her, and Joe could say so with the certainty of a man with a very good memory for faces. On a mission to prove as much to himself, he left the sketchbook on the couch and grabbed the one he knew was lurking behind Booker’s pile of romance novels by the armchair before settling in and cracking it open. 

A pencil was already tucked into the middle, and it took him all of three minutes to get the lines of her face onto the paper, just like she was in the park with the head tilted up towards the leaves. Another minute or so to fill in the small details that set her apart from the other he’d drawn that day. 

It was really no time at all before she was finished, her face marked by as few lines as possible, just the one necessary to build up the curve of her cheeks and the line of her nose. Without needing to check with the other sketches of her, but doing so anyway, Joe could tell he still hit the mark on her likeness without having to look at her at all.

Relieving to know he hadn’t just fully forgotten his entire craft on a random Tuesday, but worrying still because he had no explanation for how spectacularly he’d missed the mark on what was the most inspiring person he’d seen in a while. It just made him want to draw this stranger even more, and that was a novelty in itself. 

The front door opened loud enough to startle him out of a building artistic existential crisis. 

“I hate this time of year,” Booker said without even sparing him a glance, and missing that Joe was absolutely ready to argue that statement. “It was sunny one moment and then it started raining the next.”

“No you don’t,” Joe cut in with a grin, because he knew this was fact. His words were mostly ignored, save for a small (and not at all scary looking) glare shot his way.

The annoyance in Booker’s voice and expression did nothing to distract from how soaking wet he was, dripping all over the floor, almost looking pathetic enough to stop Joe from laughing. Almost. 

But he wasn’t even given a chance to say anything more or properly laugh out loud, with Booker disappearing upstairs with the squelching sound of his soaked shoes and annoyed grumbling in French under his breath. For him, that part at least wasn’t very out of the ordinary. 

With Booker gone so quickly though, Joe had very little in terms of distraction from his predicament.

It said a lot that he was so preoccupied that he hadn’t even noticed how dark it got when the clouds rolled in and it started raining so bad, and it provided a bit of a surprise. Not fully welcome given everything else going on, but he supposed there was little he could do about any of it. He did love the rain though, especially when not caught in it like Booker had been, and it was perfect for him to settle into the studio to focus on his possible problem.

Without fully acknowledging just yet that he did have a problem.

With the sketchbook in hand, Joe stopped by the fridge to grab a bottle of water, then made his way to the attic. Even with the rain, the skylights provided the best natural light in the entire house and just being in there was enough to get the creativity flowing. 

Barely even through the door and Joe was going through the inventory of new art supplies as well as the old piles of quality paper he never got to try out, and the ink pens that never quite suited what he needed them for. It all brought him a short list of supplies that were perfect for what he needed.

Not having been in this situation before, where a single person held his attention for this long, it was easy to conclude that he’d just lacked the right tools at the cafe to properly capture that particular stranger’s likeness. Which also meant using some of his best for a different approach should do this muse justice, and allow him to get back on his usual track where inspiration came in different shapes and forms and didn’t make him dwell like this. 

The patter of rain on the skylights was soothing in a way that very few things were when Joe was struck by motivation like this, and it eased him into a creative cocoon where nothing existed save for him and the steady rasp of an ink pen against paper. 


	5. a hope and a dream

It hadn’t worked even a little.

On a bright note, he’d finally gotten a chance to use art supplies he’d been hoarding for ages like some kind of dragon and never gotten around to actually trying out. This resulted in about a dozen drawings and paintings that could have been considered some of his best work.

Even Booker was silenced by awe at the linocut and colored ink mixed media he pulled out of the depths of his forgotten ideas and finally put down on paper for the first time. 

And yet not a single piece bore a resemblance to the stranger he was trying to draw, other than a brief vague shock of familiarity at first glance. Every single one looked like it could be him when seen from the corner of Joe’s eye, or in passing when he wasn’t even looking. But as soon as he’d take a proper look, all resemblance would disappear and they’d all go back to looking like different people. 

To put it mildly, it was frustrating and very confusing. 

To put it realistically, it was infuriating and more than a little maddening. It took Joe back to the early days of his pursuit of artistic skill, when he could barely hold a pencil correctly and when making someone actually look like themselves in more than one drawing was a challenge. 

He’d been sure those dark days were well behind him, but alas, the struggle had somehow returned out of nowhere. No matter what he did, the face he was drawing always turned out a bit off. There was no way to point out what exactly was off about it either; there was just the sense of it looking wrong that he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried to get the likeness right. Some of them felt as if there was a tiny shift, a little detail out of bound that made the whole crumble. Which detail, though, he wasn’t sure.

So all in all, very frustrating and fairly time consuming. 

The attempts he’d made, and failed at, weren’t enough to drop the matter. He barely held off on going back to Andy’s cafe later that same day with a hope the stranger would be there, just to see if he’d been remembering the face wrong. 

In the end, he did hold out until the next morning and decided to go around the same time. And then the morning after, and the morning after, because this man didn’t seem to show up when Joe needed to see him.

In all honesty, he was feeling mildly creepy by the third day, and he was pretty sure Andy was thinking it the entire time too. 

“Looking for someone?” she asked with the air of someone who’s had it. 

In this case, someone who’s had it with Joe’s sudden stalker bullshit.

“Maybe,” he said, in the hopes of not sounding much creepier for now, because his explanation would hardly make things better. 

“Is this one of your weird art things?” she proceeded to ask, momentarily looking up from the counter she’d been wiping.

They were all alone in the cafe, and for the time being, it was peaceful.

“It is an art thing, yes,” he said somewhat diplomatically. 

Andy hummed in reply, narrowing her eyes a little as she took him in, almost like she could tell what he was thinking without needing him to say anything. Being on the receiving end of that look was scary to the point she didn’t have to ask anything, he just wanted to tell her anyway. 

“I’ve seen someone here a few days ago,” he started carefully, choosing the least weird way of explaining. Picking the right words wasn’t easy though.

“I don’t think I can explain this without sounding creepy,” he said in the end, giving up with a resigned sigh, because Andy could probably figure most of it out anyway. 

The bell above the door chimed softly, breaking the mood that Joe mostly thought was glum simply because he was failing in more ways than one at the moment. But the air was sucked out of the room and replaced with a light chilly wind, and that alone was enough to make him feel lighter. 

The way Andy grinned as she looked towards the door only helped with that. 

“Joe,” she said, his name sounding like a mischievous promise the way she said it, “have you met my friend Nicky?”

He did his best to school his expression, sure that it hadn’t been a pleasant one and hoping he’d achieved something marginally better in comparison, before turning around just as Nicky started to speak.

“Andy,” he said in a voice that was meant to chastise, but the underlying amusement was obvious to Joe, even coming from someone he’d never met. 

“Nicky,” she replied with the same tone, maybe a bit more mocking in that juvenile way not many knew Andy was capable of, but Joe heard none of it because everything seemed to grind to a halt. 

Of course Andy’s friend was the person he’d been looking for, because it had to happen like that. Because Nicky was smiling, a faint smile all around, but it was shining from his eyes as well, and Joe wanted to paint it immediately. 

“Nice to meet you, Andy’s friend Nicky,” Joe said, and he knew his own smile probably didn’t do the one in front of him justice, but it was hard to keep it away. 

“Nice to meet you too,” Nicky said, looking as intrigued as Joe felt. 

Joe wasn’t quite sure how long the silence lasted, until Andy broke it for them.

“Why don’t I get you two some coffee, and Joe can tell us who he’s looking for,” she said, with that twinkle in her eye that he was beginning to hate. 

But Nicky only smiled again, and the corners of his eyes crinkled a little, reminding Joe that he wasn’t actually looking for anyone anymore. And making him realize he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 


	6. a friend

“You must get that a lot,” Nicky said, drawing Joe’s from where his fingers were fiddling with the pages of one of his pocket sketchbooks. “People asking you to draw them,” he added, referring to the joke Andy made before leaving the two of them alone to get some actual work done.

Or as alone as they could be in a crowded cafe at bruch time. 

Joe laughed as if they were actually alone though.

“Sometimes,” he said, compelled to be honest after admitting why he’d been loitering around the place to both Andy and Nicky. “I usually don’t mind since it brings joy to people.”

Nicky smiled at that, in a little secretive way that suggested he wasn’t a stranger to doing something small just to bring a smile out of someone. After all, he hadn’t been alarmed at Joe’s admission in the slightest, and the jury was still out on what that could mean. 

“That’s very noble of you,” Nicky said, sounding impressed.

“I don’t know if I’d call it noble,” Joe told him with a laugh, fingers still turning the little booklet with the nervous energy of someone who could barely contain the urge to flip open the first blank page and draw, all social conventions be damned.

Nicky snorted into his coffee a little at that, but his eyes strayed back to Joe’s hands. 

“Do you want to draw now?” Nicky asked with genuine curiosity, with none of that offended judgement he’d normally received when inspiration struck mid-conversation.

“Yes,” Joe said with a sigh, “and no.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow in question, but didn’t press. He leaned forward a little, his full attention on Joe, simply waiting for Joe to offer more of an explanation.

“It’s complicated,” Joe sighed, not used to explaining the inner workings of his mind when it came to the art he created. 

“Would you mind if I drew you?” he asked after a brief struggle for words, knowing his question wasn’t as odd as it could have been, not after he’d already apologized for his brief stalkerish behavior.

The silence between them lasted barely a moment, but it was intense with the brief uncertainty.

“Of course not,” Nicky said and leaned back in his chair. 

He wasn’t smiling anymore, which seemed a bit odd to Joe, but not in a bad way. There was something about him that was consistently open and friendly, even in the moments when his gaze turned intense and the entirety of his focus was on Joe. It was an unwavering sort of focus that, Joe imagined, would be a lot to deal with. 

And yet at the same time it was pleasant, to have someone’s unwavering attention.

So Joe smiled instead, and turned to the first blank page. Nicky was reaching out with the pencil before Joe could even think to pick it up off the table, and he did get a quirk of the lips this time. 

He was never nervous about drawing someone before, but this time felt different. After all, he hadn’t been able to get Nicky’s likeness down in a drawing yet, so he was aware this time could be a success (finally), or yet another failure. Still, it wasn’t enough to deter him, and he looked up to find Nicky looking back.

There was no shame in the way he observed Joe, with plenty of curiosity and an obviously growing fondness, and it was an expression Joe was dying to have in his works. The lines were coming together like they tended to, in swift strokes and a light rasp on paper, forming the eyes, but obviously not doing them justice because they were unique in reality. And the striking nose, the lips that could have been smiling any moment, and finally the hair that wasn’t any tidier than the first time Joe had seen him.

Once by one the pieces were coming together, shaping up the way they should, up until the moment he looked at the whole, and it was someone else looking back at him. 

The frustration was almost at a boiling point, because this didn’t feel like him anymore.

“It seems,” he said with a huff, drawing Nicky’s attention from the pencil in his hands and up to meet his eyes, “that I am actually incapable of drawing you.”

Perhaps it was unlike him to admit defeat, but even he had limits. 

Nicky laughed though, low and anything but mocking. “Would you believe that I get that a lot?” he asked in way of an explanation for his reaction. 

Joe laughed then too, the sting of another failure lessening in the face of such acceptance. 

“You know a lot of artists then?” he asked with a fair amount of interest. After all he could see why artists would be drawn to Nicky. 

He set the pencil and sketchbook down on the table without glancing back down at them, and reached for his coffee instead because that seemed a safer option at the moment.

“I knew many,” Nicky said and he seemed to drift away a bit, lost in a memory for a moment before he was back. 

“They usually have trouble with the nose,” he added with a laugh, whatever memory he remembered gone again as he focused back on Joe. 

“It is a striking nose,” Joe said and took a sip of his coffee just to hide the smile behind his mug while Nicky laughed. 

“Striking is a word for it,” he said, clearly amused. “May I see?” 

He was looking back down at the sketchbook and Joe just nodded, never one to shy away from sharing his work with others, but still holding onto his mug to have something to occupy his hands with. After all, it was only one drawing that didn’t turn out as expected, out of many that filled the pages Nicky was carefully going through.

One wasn’t nearly enough to judge his work, not that he thought Nicky would in that way, so it didn’t feel monumental. After all, apparently he wasn’t the only one failing at capturing Nicky’s likeness.


	7. a walk beneath the clouds

“You didn’t mention you were an artist too,” Joe said, almost accusatory, as soon as Nicky joined him by the door. He had barely a moment with Andy and she didn’t waste time before sharing as many innocent details about Nicky as humanly possible; which in her case was just this one.

Nicky laughed at that while Andy shouted her goodbyes. He seemed to be doing a lot of smiling and laughing, and Joe was hoping it was at least partially due to him. The more time he spent around Nicky, the more obvious it became that the need to get his likeness right was becoming less important than just to get to know him.

“I suppose,” Nicky said in an endearingly shy way that wasn’t like the Nicky Joe spent a few hours with, “in a way I am, but it is different from what you do.”

“I love my work, drawing slices of bread and all, but you work on restoring old masters,” Joe said in a way that, hopefully, left no room for argument because any work like that deserved respect. “I think that includes at least a little bit of artistic talent, and a lot of skill, so that qualifies you as an artist.”

Joe was already used to the sound of Nicky’s laughter, and they’d barely spend hours together. It was a sound he could get used to when he worked, just like the sound of rain that helped him focus. 

“If I agree with you, will you go for a walk with me?” 

That small smile was back, and that too was something Joe could get used to. Far be it from him to decline an invite like that.

“Lead the way,” was enough for Nicky to start walking in the direction of the park that Joe knew like the back of his hand. If there had been any nervousness about this entire encounter, being in such a familiar place would dispel that. 

It felt like a completely different place after the rain, but plenty of people still walked down the paths and through the trees, their dogs by their sides. While unusually low, the urge to draw was still present like usual when he was under those trees. The leaves kept changing and the branches would soon be bare, so the will to mark every change and every passing day was always there. 

“Your fingers start twitching when you want to pull your sketchbook out, don’t they?” Nicky asked and he was smiling that smile again, the one that didn’t have a hint of mockery in it, just genuine curiosity, and how could Joe not answer this. 

“That is a possibility,” he replied faux seriously, without going into detail of the habit borne out of trying not to just stop and pull any piece of paper out whenever inspiration decided to strike. 

If nothing else, that tended to be rude in most cases, if the paper in question wasn’t his.

“When I was younger,” Joe started, almost not believing that he was actually sharing that story with someone even though he wasn’t planning on it, “I used to just grab a paper where I could and draw the moment I was inspired.”

Nicky didn’t look like he had a hard time believing that, and they’d only just met. Perhaps that said something about Joe.

Perhaps it said something about Nicky too, really. Most likely, it said plenty about both of them, and the way they were getting along.

“Mostly it was fine, I always had drawing paper in my backpack and my desk, but usually any paper would do in the moment,” he said and glanced over to see how attentively Nicky was listening as they walked.

His attention was, as before, completely unwavering, and it made Joe cut the story short because being observed that raptly was not something he was used to. Spending more time with Nicky was just showing him that.

“It became a problem the moment I accidentally drew a Pokemon last supper on the back of my diploma while celebrating with my friends.”

Nicky was, at least, polite enough not to outright laugh, which he couldn’t say about many others that knew of the story. Many or anyone at all, since explaining the reasoning behind a Snorlax Jesus tended to raise many eyebrows. 

“In india ink,” he added, just to conclude the albeit short story with a dramatic flare, and that was the last straw that made Nicky laugh, as Joe knew it would. 

“Come to the museum with me,” Nicky said somewhat out of the blue when the laughter had stopped, but the corners of his eyes were still looking like he could laugh more at any moment. “Tomorrow, for a date,” he clarified, but not really, and Joe didn’t need to think at all before replying.

“I would love to,” he said. “I don’t think that story ever got me a date before.”

Nicky laughed again at that, and Joe had been right, he was definitely getting too used to the sound.

“I was working on Tintoretto’s Last Supper,” Nicky told him, “for the Baroque exhibit we just opened, and it sounded like you may be interested in seeing it.”

His teasing sense of humor reminded Joe of Andy, and he could see why the two would get along the way they did. 

“You’re terrible,” Joe said, but it had absolutely no bite. “I would still love to go, even if your goal is just to remind me of my past mistakes.”

“Pokemon are never a mistake,” Nicky told him seriously, his face so straight Joe almost believed him. Almost, but not quite because his eyes did the same thing Andy’s did when she was pretending she didn’t know what being silly meant. “Were you able to salvage the diploma?” 

“Of course,” he said then paused for effect, “I have it framed with the Pokemon side up in my studio.”

The way Nicky laughed was almost as addictive, as it was inspirational. 


	8. a sense of familiarity

The museum was already closed to the public and empty by the time they’d made it inside. Staff members were still milling about, but for the most part, Joe and Nicky had the place to themselves. These big rooms filled with art, completely devoid of people, and with the lights turned low with nothing but the highlights above each work illuminating the space were nothing short of magic.

Joe had never been in there without at least three separate groups of school kids running around.

Nicky had been telling him about the exhibit earlier, about the intricacies of Baroque religious painting, and it was an experience that put all his art history classes to shame. The light in Nicky’s eyes while he spoke of the art and of his work almost rivaled the way Joe himself spoke of art, making him marvel at how they’d never met before. 

“And it all culminates with the Last Supper at the end,” Nicky finished with his explanation on how the exhibit was set up, motioning in front of them.

Joe couldn’t claim he’d been paying attention to where they were walking while Nicky led the way, because listening to him speak was by far more interesting. But they were slowing down, and Nicky was looking ahead with that smile Joe was becoming weak for. 

So he turned as well and realized Nicky led him straight to the end, to the Last Supper he’d been working on. 

Of course Joe had seen it before, but lit up with a single light in an otherwise dim room, the painting looked ethereal. The baroque use of light always inspired him. 

Always made him feel like he should be using oil paints more often as well, a feeling that lasted only until the moment he did use oil paints and was reminded that they were truly a pain in his ass. 

Nicky said nothing while Joe’s eyes traveled over the painting, taking it all in with this new lighting in the absolute silence around them. For the briefest of moments, Joe could have sworn the illuminated head of Jesus looked like Nicky himself, but as soon as he stepped closer and focused, the resemblance was gone just like that. A feeling he’d had about his own works lately, one he hadn’t expected when faced with a masterpiece as well.

He huffed at himself, drawing Nicky’s attention. A raised eyebrow was all it took for Joe to huff out another laugh. 

“I think I’ve been focusing on your face too much lately,” he said, only realizing what it sounded like once the words were out, but embraced them nonetheless with a grin that must have matched Nicky’s. 

“Flattering,” Nicky muttered just loud enough for Joe to hear, but not acknowledge for now.

“I could have sworn Jesus looked like you for a moment,” he said instead, looking back towards the painting and getting the same flash of familiarity until he focused on the figure of Christ. 

“I get that a lot too,” Nicky said with a laugh. “But he does not,” he added, a bit lower than his previous words.

Joe cast a glance towards him, just to find him looking back up at the painting with something unreadable in his expression. 

“I could look at it all night,” Joe said just to break the strange mood settled around them, and made his way towards the padded bench in front of them. “And I could probably listen to you tell me what you worked on with this one.”

It was enough to get Nicky’s attention, and to make the look on his face morph into one Joe thought suited him better.

“Careful what you wish for,” Nicky said in a way that was probably meant to be a threat, but instead sounded more like a promise. One that Joe hoped Nicky would keep once.

“Are you threatening me?” Joe asked, hoping he hadn’t sounded too delighted about the prospect of a promise like that. 

The bench was just big enough for the two of them and provided the best view of the painting before them. Nicky’s shoulder was pressed against Joe’s as soon as they’d both sat down, and that warm presence was grounding. 

Calming even, making the urge to get the sketchbook out of his pocket and sketch the various portraits in Tintoretto’s work go away. An unusual feat, really, and Joe was reluctantly shocked into relishing it for a moment, for once allowed a brief look at this masterpiece as just an observer, and not an artist. It had been too long since he was allowed that.

“This one was in almost perfect condition when it arrived,” Nicky said, his voice matching the low light and the ambience of the space around them. “All it needed was some surface cleaning.”

“What else did you work on?” Joe asked, but didn’t look away from this painting just yet. 

They had plenty of time to walk through the rest of the exhibit; it didn’t even matter how they did it since they’d skipped to the end already anyway. 

“Here?” Nicky asked, and he did turn his gaze away from the painting, Joe could tell by the brush of hair against his cheek. “Or in general?”

“Both,” Joe said, “but I meant the ones here, for now.”

Listening to Nicky talk about his work was something else, and Joe was excited to hear more about it. Not just that night, but hopefully on other (numerous) occasions. 

“That list is very long,” Nicky warned, for once sounding slightly unsure, but hiding it very well. 

Not well enough for it to go unnoticed, but nearly there. 

“I am a very good listener,” Joe countered and turned finally to look at Nicky.

They were sitting very close, almost no space left between them, and Joe had half a mind to just lean forward and kiss Nicky, because it felt like that kind of opportunity. But of course he didn’t; there were security cameras around, and this was Nicky’s workplace. 

“So allow me to listen,” he said instead of acting on his wishful thinking.

“I can show you?” he said with uncertainty, but the way he moved to stand was nothing if not confident like his movements always were.

Nicky’s hand shot out as soon as he was standing, inviting Joe to come with him, as if they were about to dance. 

(Joe wouldn’t mind.)

“There are four sections,” Nicky said once Joe took his hand and got to his feet, “including the one with the Tintoretto.”

The way he pronounced all the artists’ names was something like music to Joe, with the way his lips curled around the words lovingly as if they were all friends. It made Joe want to brush up on his Italian just to get a chance to hear Nicky speak about his work so passionately, without holding back due to the way English never seemed to fit with the art he was talking about.

“I didn’t care for this one,” he said with a joyful little chuckle as he led Joe through the adjoining room that seemed to focus on the Virgin Mary and the depictions of her life. 

Joe was amused by that, but he let go fully and allowed himself to be guided through the halls. This was Nicky’s domain, just like the park had been his, and he had no qualms about letting Nicky lead this time. The light in his eyes was something else entirely, and it made the whole experience better. 

“But these are my favorites,” he said when they’d finally stopped, several rooms down and obviously no longer in the main exhibition area. 

The room was dim, just like the rest of them, illuminated by the lights above each painting, and it was a whole new way of observing them for Joe. The deeper shadows allowed the relief of paint to come through, making everything that more dramatic, as if baroque in itself hadn’t been dramatic enough.

From the corner of his eye, Joe caught sight of a portrait, sure that it was one of someone that looked exactly like Nicky. His mouth opened to voice his observation, hopefully to amuse Nicky, but as soon as he turned, Joe could see he’d been mistaken. 

One painting would have been weird enough, but this sensation happening with others as well was more than a little annoying. After all, he hadn’t been aware his infatuation had gotten that bad.

Because there was no other explanation for that anyway. 

“Why?” he asked instead, turning away from the portrait to look at Nicky by his side instead. “Why are they your favorites?”

Nicky smiled to himself, as if remembering something he had no intention of sharing. 

“It feels like I knew the men who painted these,” he said, shaking the memory off and glancing around the room with that same smile.

“Being in this room feels like being surrounded by friends,” he added, and Joe supposed he understood. 


	9. between one breath and the next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art can be reblogged here: https://remmarts.tumblr.com/image/645863935055200256

The evening air was, in a way, warmer than expected. He could see his breath fogging in front of his face if he looked hard enough, so surely it had to be cold, but Joe felt warmer than ever as soon as they’d walked outside again. 

Listening to Nicky talk about art, about the paintings he’d worked on, even going into technical detail, was something Joe could do endlessly if given the chance. No one was, of course, giving him that opportunity, but a man could dream. 

“Was that enough about my work?” Nicky asked and Joe could already spot that little self conscious something on his face as he said it. 

“Not nearly,” he replied, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. “But it will do for now,” he added, to Nicky’s delighted surprise. 

He was getting more confident about reading Nicky’s expressions the more time they’d spent together, and one could only hope that time was something they had plenty of. The little things that made him tick, and the details of his expressions were not helping Joe’s overall urge to never stop drawing Nicky, but he was beyond fighting to learn why exactly he’d been failing at it.

“What is it we’re doing now then,” Nicky said more than he asked, “if not that.”

Nothing about him said he was in any way reluctant to follow Joe for the remainder of their date, however long it may turn out. Joe had nothing specific in mind, really, and neither did Nicky once the museum was behind them, but there was nothing awkward about the uncertainty of their evening. 

Nothing awkward about any of their time together, despite Joe’s admissions about the frustration of drawing Nicky. Despite the fact they’d barely even known each other a day. 

It felt like longer, and it felt like not long enough.

“As much as I love hearing you talk about your work, we are,” Joe started, glancing around for inspiration, knowing well it didn’t take much for it to appear, “taking a walk in the museum park.”

The museum park was an actual park with trees and paths and benches, and an abundance of remnants of antique statues, pillars, and ruins of Roman temples. It was one of Joe’s favorite places to walk and draw, because there was always a new way to depict the remains of the goddess of victory and her wings. She’d been an inspiration for so much through the centuries, and she’d stay that way for centuries to come, and Joe wasn’t beneath drawing his inspiration from the same source as many before him.

“Do you know every park in the city so intimately?” Nicky asked, laughing lightly as he did, but he was already moving towards the gates as if this was exactly what he wanted to do next.

One could easily forget that he worked there, free to roam both the museum and the park whenever he’d like.

“Would you judge me if I said yes?” Joe asked, falling into step with Nicky down the gravel path and towards the cast iron gates of the park. 

“Only if you judge me for being a regular at almost every cat cafe,” he said without hesitation. 

“Then yes, I am familiar with every single park in the city,” he said, “and I have a watercolor from each in my studio.”

They were some of his favorite works, a sort of tradition he’d started back when he’d first moved to the city, still unfamiliar with everything, but dedicated to not being afraid of the unknown. That apartment was overlooking a small park that could barely be called that, and he’d taken his watercolors out to paint the single real tree around.

He’d visited every green surface in the city since, gathering watercolors of each park’s defining feature, and inadvertently starting his very first series. 

“Would you be willing to let me see them?” Nicky asked, and Joe couldn’t find it in himself to say no to anything he might have been asked in that moment. 

“Of course,” he said, perhaps all too eager about it. 

Nicky didn’t seem to mind that at all. 

Instead he huffed out a short foggy breath, a little sound of amusement, but as always lacking any mockery one might normally find in a sound like that, while he turned towards the nearest bench. His eyes extended the invitation to Joe, and of course he followed like a moth to a flame. They hadn’t passed a single person since the gates; sitting on that bench, just next to the dimly lit path, felt as if it was just the two of them in the world. 

“That sounds like a good second date activity,” Nicky said just as he was sitting down.

“Only if you’re on a date with an artist,” Joe added and sat down next to him, arguably closer than strictly necessary. 

Nicky was leaning back in his seat, but he was fully turned towards Joe with the most open and inviting air about him that Joe had seen. Sitting next to him was intoxicating because he didn’t seem to believe in doing things by halves, giving all of himself to the moment and whatever that moment held. 

And Joe wanted nothing more than to kiss him, just like he’d wanted to in the museum, but this time it felt more possible. Everything felt more real when there was nothing but the two of them and the silence. 

Of course Nicky beat him to it though, with the way he leaned in and let his breath mix with the fog of Joe’s own for a moment while he spoke, low enough that the words stayed trapped between them.

“May I?” he asked, as if the possibility of Joe saying no even existed. 

“Please do,” Joe said instead, waiting just long enough for Nicky to actually say the words out loud before he was responding.

And then the warmth was against his lips, a soft press that carried more weight than Joe cared to dwell upon, not when Nicky’s lips were his to taste. The caress of fingers, cold but soft against his cheek, jolted him enough to open his eyes, and to draw out the question of when he’d even closed them. 

Nicky’s fingers warmed quickly against the heat Joe felt in his cheeks, from this giddy feeling of finally getting something he’d barely been aware of wanting until it happened. Very few words in his vocabulary could even begin to describe how gently Nicky’s hands invited him to tilt his head, to deepen the kiss, and make Joe realize how much more he’d wanted. 

It must have been beyond words at this point. 

Joe’s fingers were clenched in the fuzzy sleeve of Nicky’s sweater, once he’d become aware of them again, when he felt like he’d returned to his body after a brief absence, and that just served to spur him on. To move closer, despite there barely being any space left between them, and to let his tongue lick at the seam of Nicky’s lips, chasing the taste of all words he’d spoken just for Joe. 

There were only a few words Joe would use to describe Nicky, but the only one that kept coming to mind was how incredible Nicky was, in that moment with his lips hot against Joe’s, and in every moment leading up to that bench. He was incredible, and his lips tasted like something Joe couldn’t begin to describe because words were never his forte, he was never good at describing things with words, but he had his own ways. 

Nicky felt like the first satisfying stroke of a brush on a fresh canvas, and the crisp line of a freshly sharpened pencil on a pure white sheet of paper. He was the first print of a woodcut, overflowing with paint, and that final brush of a fingertip against charcoal. 

Joe could have kissed him forever, and it still wouldn't feel like nearly long enough. 

He could and he would, but he didn’t because he started pulling while he still had his wits about him, breaking the kiss, but not the embrace. Nicky didn’t protest, he just smiled and let his gaze linger, on Joe’s eyes for the most part, flicking to his lips here and there, as if convincing himself he’d tasted those not even a moment before.

“I must admit,” he started, his voice hushed like the air around them, “your ideas are amazing.”

Joe smiled against Nicky’s lips, just to share the joy between them for a moment longer.

“Glad to hear that,” he whispered, each sound allowing his lips to brush against Nicky’s in barely a tickle of contact. “I have many more of these, if you’re interested.”

The answer to that sounded like a resounding yes, even if it wasn’t said in as many words, but pressed into his lips again like there was no other way to make it clear.


	10. the spatter of paint and rain

Getting to know Nicky better did very little to change the artistic predicament Joe was in, and that in itself was the slightest bit frustrating. Somehow, it actually made things worse too, because getting to know different aspects of who Nicky was just made Joe want to make art with him in the heart of it even more, and well. That was still not working out.

He hadn’t been obsessed with portraits in a very long time, but being unable to pull something as simple as this off was grating at his very core as an artist.

His studio was rearranged as of late, in a way that divided the space into two: on one side, there was everything new he’d made that went beyond the usual scope of quality in his art, and on the other were all the pieces that brought endless amounts of frustration. The frustration had been dwindling, with Joe getting closer to accepting that there was just something about Nicky’s face he couldn’t quite capture. It was as unique a face as it could be, but there was also so much more beyond the physical that added layers which eluded him. It wasn’t a testament of his skill in any way, as proven by literally everything else currently strewn all over his studio floor. 

He’d just evidently found his one weakness, in more ways than one really.

But it all made him create more as well, in a way he hadn’t in a long time, so maybe he just needed to change his perspective on what he considered a bad thing. Whatever he’d seen in Nicky was inspiring him still, driving him to create and to continue creating, and evidence that it was working could be found all around him. 

There were two papers that didn’t fit into either group on the floor though, and Joe got up from his chair in the middle of all that organized chaos to pick them up.

One was a very detailed study of a pair of hands loosely wrapped around a mug from Andy’s, and the other an ink study of the portrait of Christ from Tintoretto’s painting. The hands, obviously Nicky’s from the day they’d met, were probably the closest to getting anything of his down on paper. His hands were very distinct, with various cuts from his tools that he’d described to Joe, and always smudged with some kind of lacquer or paint, depending on what he’d been working on that day.

There was no way of mistaking them for someone else’s hands, and Joe counted this as a victory in itself. They were, in fact, very lovely hands, capable of so much and holding more than Joe could hope to depict. 

And well, Tintoretto’s Christ would be something he could only associate with Nicky after their date in front of the painting, so Joe chose to consider this as finally being able to have Nicky on paper. The thought that he was more than the expressions of his face Joe could draw was a liberating one. This change of thinking opened so many options, so many avenues he could take that he should have thought of earlier, but was uncharacteristically too shortsighted to see. 

Instead of beating himself up over that though, Joe set the study of Nicky’s hands aside on his chair, and took the ink drawing to his assorted art crap cabinet in the corner. He was sure of the existence of at least one appropriately sized frame he could put the drawing in for safe keeping. 

There was no doubt that Nicky would prefer it over the drawing of his own hands, and it was one of Joe’s best at the moment. Surely, because of the story behind it that would stay with him for the foreseeable future.

The rest of the chaos remained on the floor where Joe had (somewhat) arranged it earlier, left to be dealt with later because he had more pressing business to attend to once the drawing he’d set aside for Nicky was framed. The sky was his limit of creation once again, the feeling of being unstoppable replacing the frustration that fueled him for days. 

As if on cue, rain was beginning to spatter against the skylights above again, echoing through the studio and setting the mood for another creative episode to channel all of what was going through his head in recent days. Despite his brief preoccupation, it wasn’t all about Nicky either; he’d been going back to long abandoned ideas and inspirations that were making him confident this time around. 

The canvas was out and set up on the easel before he even gave it any thought, ready to take on the oils for the first time that season. Being around baroque masters was enough to make a man want to paint, and to play with light and shadow. 

His relationship with oil paints was a love and hate one, depending on the day, and this seemed like a love day. 

Without a solid idea in mind, he got the jars of paint out, picking color based on the mood, and bypassing any kind of plan whatsoever for now. The palette of a baroque work was similar to that of autumn leaves and a cloudy sky, and it was a perfect combination for everything he’d been focusing on. 

The brushes, with handles covered in age old paint, were safely tucked away in a corner shelf, gathering dust since the last time he ventured into oils probably too long ago. Just the motions of gathering everything without knowing what he was going towards were a rush of inspiration and endless opportunity, with flashes of ideas to consider, then disregard for the time being. 

A certain kind of comfort could be found in the remnants of paint stuck between the floorboards beneath his easel; they were a reminder of previous ventures that he’d learned from, and that served as experience towards something better. 

And this felt like a time for something better. 


	11. wholly predictable

Nicky lounged on the sofa like he owned the place, the book he’d been so interested in reading flipped open on his chest. Joe was pretty sure he hadn’t actually read a single word since settling in.

“You didn’t have to pretend to read just to stay here while I work,” Joe said without turning away from the canvas, the mirror partially hidden by his easel positioned just right to allow him to see where Nicky was settled in on the sofa against the wall behind him. 

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said, putting up an offended facade in a way that suggested he knew Joe could see him. “I had every intention to read until you started working and I lost my focus.”

It sounded teasing enough for Joe to laugh a little, the brush suspended just above the canvas, 

“You flatter me, Nico” Joe said, allowing the brush to touch the canvas below this time to continue on this layer of paint.

At this point, it took more than just Nicky to distract him, no matter how much Nicky tried. Generally, he tended to put a lot of effort into trying to get Joe’s attention unless he was working on something important. The show, this time, had yet to properly begin.

“It’s not flattery if every words is true,” he said, and Joe just wanted to kiss him, but he was keeping up a strong front, 

Giving in too soon was out of the question, knowing Nicky had too much fun being a distracting bastard. 

“That is debatable,” Joe said, stepping back just to take a better look at his canvas. 

“That is not up for debate,” Nicky said and the smile was evident in the way he spoke. 

“Nothing is ever a debate with you, love,” Joe added, and finally looked over his shoulder just to meet Nicky’s eyes.

Nicky took that as a moment of victory, as evident by the smug look on his face.

He’d actually won the moment he set foot into the studio, but Joe wasn’t about to mention that. 

“You should let the paint dry before you move on to the next layer,” Nicky said then, motioning towards the canvas.

To anyone else, it would sound like he was trying to teach Joe how to paint, but to Joe it sounded like an excuse to put the brush and palette down. An invitation to get distracted, without allowing his work to suffer. 

“Yes, I should let it dry now,” he said with a snort, one that Nicky matched almost immediately. 

The brush clinked against the glass jar he dropped it in, and the palette, luckily pretty much completely out of paint, was set aside in front of the easel. Joe could have marveled at how observant Nicky was, picking the most convenient time to distract Joe into taking a mostly much needed break. 

He was standing by the sofa in no time at all, looking down at Nicky for barely a moment before he braced himself on the backrest and leaned down for a kiss. One that Nicky gave gladly. 

“You are a horrible distraction,” Joe said against Nicky’s lips as soon as they parted, but he hadn’t moved far, too content to stay this close.

“You are horribly easy to distract,” Nicky countered with that smile of his.

The smile that looked shy at one point, until Joe came to learn that it was a definite sign of mischief.

“I refuse to confirm or deny that,” he said, aware that Nicky could read him like an open book. 

The laugh he got in return was proof enough of that, and pressing another kiss against Nicky’s lips was the only way to make him stop being so insightful for a moment. And then another one just because he could, and wanted to. Amd yet another one because. 

“You’re distracting yourself now, I can no longer be to blame,” Nicky told him, looking as innocent as ever, but he was in fact that bad influence that made Joe take breaks to eat and stretch his legs and rest his eyes a little. 

“Mmm, you are never to blame, are you,” Joe said, but the words had no heat behind them because he was grateful and Nicky knew it. 

“Of course,” Nicky added, just for the sake of being a distracting bastard, so Joe kissed him again.

This time he got a laugh against his lips, bubbling out of their kiss, because Nicky saw right through him in the best of ways, and no amount of deflection by way of kissing would change that. 

“Now you’re distracting me too,” Nicky said and the laughter was still there in his voice, and his eyes. “Why don’t you draw me instead,” he added, leaning back into the sofa and getting comfortable again. 

He even put his arms above his head, mimicking the pose from Titanic like he was prone to doing whenever he was asking Joe to draw him just for the fun of it, to see how he’d turn out after another increasingly silly try. 

“Why don’t I,” Joe said and straightened, but not before pressing his lips to Nicky’s chin. 

There were blank papers everywhere, pencils covering several flat surfaces, so gathering supplies was never a chore and it never took incredibly long. Nicky, as always, still watched with his full attention turned to Joe, just waiting for everything to be ready for him to pose. 

They made it a habit to do this, more out of fun than anything to prove.

“So what are we doing today, love?” Joe asked and took a seat in front of the sofa, waiting for Nicky’s directions. 

The likeness was never quite right, but Joe loved each of the drawings nonetheless. 


End file.
